Chapter VI: Part 6

My heart demands the love of a fair maid.

A lovely maid of Cornouaille, I ween,

With eyes of blue and locks of amber sheen.

And if I cannot have that golden head,

Prepare the mass, for soon I shall be dead.

In The Secrets of the Clerk there is a more delicate fancy, and the gracious avowal has all the charm of a natural and touching imagery:--

THE SECRETS OF THE CLERK.

Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,

I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.

I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,

When I think of her I love so deep.

Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,

In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.

When I see you come through the forest grove,

On its leaves I write the secrets of my love.

--But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,

To hold the secrets close which their page receives.

When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,

Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.

'T were safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.

Graven deep they'd rest, and never take their flight.

The amatory folk-songs of Brittany have their peculiar images and phrases, like those of all other countries, and which are repeated without variation as almost essential characteristics. The reader of Scottish ballads knows how invariably the recipient of a letter first smiles and then has his eyes blinded by tears, and recalls the constant repetition of familiar images and descriptions. So in the Breton folk-songs the lover constantly declares that he has worn out three pairs of sabots in coming to see her without being able to find out her thought, and that he has watched in the wind and rain through the night with no consolation but the sound of her soft breathing through the key-hole of the door; to which the cruel or coquettish damsel replies that she has no objection to tell him her thought, which is that he should buy a new pair of shoes, or that he should take himself home as soon as possible. The piece entitled In the White Cabin at the Foot of the Mountain is a characteristic specimen of these songs, whose effect of simplicity can only be retained by an absolutely literal translation: --

In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain

Is my sweet, my love.

Is my love, is my desire,

And all my happiness.

Before the night I must see her

Or my little heart will break.

My little heart will not break

For my lovely dear I have seen.

Fifty night I have been

At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.

The rain and the wind whipped me,

Until my garments dripped.

Nothing came to console me

Except the sound of breathing from her bed.

Except the sound of breathing from her bed,

Which came through the little hole for the key.

Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,

Her thought I do not know.

The fourth pair I have begun to wear,

Her thought I do not know.

Five pairs, alas, in good count,

Her thought I do not know.

--If it is my thought you wish to know,

It is not I, who will make a mystery of it.

There are three roads on each side of my house,

Choose one among them.

Choose whichever you like among them,

Provided it will take you far from here.

--More is worth love, since it pleases me,

Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.

Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,

Wealth serves for nothing.

Wealth passes like the yellow pears:

Love endures for ever.

More is worth a handful of love

Than an oven full of gold and silver.

Another form of the love song than the melancholy apostrophe to the mistress, and the simple moralizing which accompanies it, is the gay chant, which was composed to the dance measures played by the _biniou_ and the _bombarde_ at the village fêtes, and which was sung in accord with them. On these occasions, which were chiefly the Pardons, or gatherings to celebrate the days of the Patron Saints, when the religious exercises are concluded, the young men engage in athletic competition, wrestling and jumping for prizes under the eyes of their sweethearts, and the festivities wind up with dancing on the green, and the scene is as gay as if it had no connection with religion. Every Breton story teller, and every writer on the life and customs of Brittany, has delighted to depict these scenes, which are the rendezvous of youthful lovers and the embodiment of vigorous and healthy gayety, with all the picturesqueness of country life and color. The element of these dance songs is their lively and strongly accented melody to accompany the dancing air and illustrate the movements, as in the following specimen:--

Sunday I have seen,

Sunday I will see,

Three of my young lovers,

Who 'll come and dance with me.

Dance between the two,

And pass before them gay,

Dance between the three,

And wave them all away.

Press the foot of that;

And wink the eye at this;

Mock the other's pride;

There is no greater bliss.

When you come to call,

Pray let me know the hour;

I will grease my cakes

And put eggs in the flour.

I will oil the door;

The hinges will not creak;

In the closet bed

I 'll lie, and will not speak.

Come not through the yard,

My flowers you will tread,

My onions, and my cress,

My peas and berries red.

Throw straw upon the fire

To show your darling head.

It might be expected that in a country so much under the influence of the sea, and in which so large a proportion of the inhabitants are sailors, fishers on the stormy and dangerous coast or in the distant waters of Newfoundland and Iceland, there would be a large number of sea songs. The folk-lore of Brittany is particularly rich in stories and legends of the sea, composed by the fishermen to while away the long hours of the passage to Newfoundland or the nightwatches in the misty seas of Iceland; or embodying the mysterious and superstitious terrors of the fishermen of the coast in the face of storms and foaming reefs; and the impress of supernatural power in the ocean and the storm is very strong upon the imaginations of the Breton people. But the sailors themselves, like the laborers in the fields, do not seem to have the inspiration and poetical gift to put their thoughts into song. M. Luzel has been able to collect but a comparatively few of genuine sailor songs, and these are mostly tavern choruses or rude and commonplace chants, with but very little of the salt of the seas and the voice of the breeze in them. The women sometimes chant at the spinning-wheel songs of warning against the dangers and perils of becoming a sailor's wife, of which the following is an example:--

DO NOT MARRY A SAILOR.

Maidens young, who wish to wed,

Take advice from an old head.

If you marry, as you say,

Do not take a sailor gay.

If you take a sailor gay,

You will sorrow night and day.

When the farmer's wife's in bed The sailor's wife the floor must tread.

When the wind arises shrill,

Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill.

Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill,

And in her veins the blood run chill.

Every moment she seeks the door,

--Mercy, how the torrents pour!

If I had store of money red,

I know the husband I would wed.

I'd wed the heir of a good house,

Who can reap the fields he ploughs.

Who can reap the fields he ploughs,

And in his stable has good cows.

Both night and day whom I can see,

And who will sleep by the side of me.

While the poor sailor, day and night,

Lives in peril and affright.

Day and night must work and wake,

And of a plank his cradle make.

The Breton women, who spend hours at the spinning-wheel, as in all other countries, accompany the monotonous and musical drone with long chants, that hypnotize the sense of labor, which are often merely improvisations with as little sense and meaning as the lullabies for infants. But here is one into which the old spinner puts the thoughts of her willingness to make sacrifice of her all in order that her son might be educated as a priest, and her hopes of reward from his filial piety. The soothing and monotonous melody is necessarily lost in the translation.

THE SONG OF THE OLD SPINNER.

My wheel and my bonnet of straw

And my waist of white linen

Shall be all yours, my young clerk,

That you may make yourself a priest.

And my porringers and my spoons,

He shall have them all at one time.

And my old warp, and my brake,

And my old carder besides.

And when he is a priest

I shall have a broidered robe.

And my shoes will have ribbons,

And my collar will be fluted.

And a cap upon my head,

Like that of a damsel of quality.

One of the most notable and singular features in Breton folk-poetry is the feeling displayed toward animals. Almost human attributes of wisdom and affection are bestowed upon them, and, unlike many primitive races, the Breton peasantry have a great tenderness toward the dumb companions of their labors. When they kill them it is from necessity, and with a genuine sensibility for their sufferings, which may have its ancient root in a tradition of animal worship, such as led the North American Indian to apologize to the bear, whom he was killing with his arrows. At any rate it is a very creditable feeling, and adds to the respect and liking which the Breton character inspires, that there should be this tenderness for the old horse, who has ploughed the fields and borne burdens until his strength is spent; for the old goat, who has given milk for the children; and even for the pig, who has inhabited the pen by the cabin. In the folk-songs this feeling is represented by various pieces of verse, giving the last wills and testaments of old animals, who bequeath, sometimes in a spirit of humor, and sometimes with affectionate tenderness, portions of their bodies and qualities of their spirits to their human friends and companions. There is thus the testament of the goat, the old sow, and the old mare. The latter displays a touching feeling, and the impression of quaint absurdity gives way to a more tender emotion and that touch of pathos which is evoked by all animal affection and animal suffering.

THE WILL OF THE OLD MARE.

Between Pontrieaux and Kerlouet

Is dead an old mare.

She cried, the old mare,

To have he£ shoes pulled off.

She cried loud enough to split her voice,

--Pull the nails from my sabots.

It is eighteen months, without falsehood,

Since I have been in a stable.

If it is not in the great barnyard of Kerlouet,

There I have often lodged.

I bequeath my patience

To him, Oliver le Judic.

Which he has cruelly proved this year,

In that he has lost his wife.

In that this year his wife is dead.

To live without one's half is not a pleasant thing.

I pray to give the hairs of my tail,

To him, Pierre Perrot.

That he may make a light fly-flap

To keep the flies from the horses in summer.

And when the other horses fling and kick,

He will remember the blind mare.

Carry my head to the ferry of Frinaoudour,

To serve as a little boat upon the water.

To pass from one bank to the other

Those who go to hunt at Plourivo.

Those who go to hunt at Plourivo,

The rabbit, the fox and the wild duck.

As has been said, the chief value of folk-song is in its genuineness, in the accuracy with which it reflects not only the emotions, but the habits and customs of the people, so that their peculiar life becomes visible before our eyes. There is an indefinable charm, not only in the impression of reality, but in the very rudeness and imperfection of the speech, which gives an effect beyond literary art, when deep emotion or domestic pathos are seen through it. We seem to get nearer the primitive heart of mankind than under the effect of the most accomplished literary skill, and there are awakened the homely and tender feelings which lie deep within our nature. The genuine fairy tale created by the vivid and credulous imagination of the uncultivated mind, and the genuine folk-song, the outburst of simple and natural emotion, take a hold upon even the most cultivated intellects as the highest literary art fails to do. The folk-songs of Brittany have this charm as well as their own peculiar provincial flavor; and the very crudeness and imperfection of the Sonniou in M. Luzel's collection have more power than all the elaborate poetry and picturesqueness of M. Yillemarque's Celtic fabrications.

THE FOLK-SONGS OF POITOU.

|While there is much that is common in the folk-songs of all the provinces of France, the same stories and the same turns of expression, showing, if not a common origin, a very wide and thorough intercommunication,--as, for instance, in the beautiful and pathetic ballad of Jean Renaud, which is found almost everywhere in slightly differing variants,--each section has its own local peculiarities illustrating the temperament and the origin of the people.

It is needless to say that there is a strongly marked note of difference between the melancholy and finely sensitive songs of the people of Brittany and the gay and joyous chants and ballads of those of Gascony and Provence. It would be inevitable from the widely different natures of the two people, and their origin from distinct and strongly divergent native stocks. But this distinction goes further, and marked shades of difference in feeling and sentiment may be found in the character and temperament of the folk-songs and music of the inhabitants of the same province, who are of common origin and consanguinity, with the same native language, and the same habits and customs. This is due in a great measure to a difference in their surroundings, and the influence of external nature, whether gay or morose, fertile or barren, upon the minds and characters of the people. Thus in his splendid collection of the Chants and Chansons Populaires des Provinces de l'Ouest, M. Jerome Burgeaud tells us that the plaintive and melancholy airs of the inhabitants of the deep woods and heavy marshes of La Vendee become gay and cheerful in Poitou, and sparkle with brilliant mirth in Saintonge and the Angumois, without changing their notes or form, simply from the difference in the scenery and its influence upon the spirits of the people. The ancient Poitou, comprising the upper portion of the region between the Loire and Garonne, is full of smiling and rich fields, where the grapes burgeon in deep black clusters, and the yellow wheat-ears hang heavy and full, and the warm sun and the savory air fill the blood of the people with lightness and gayety. They are not so ebullient and joyous, it may be, as the inhabitants of the still warmer and more smiling regions of Gascony and Languedoc, but the contrast is very marked between them and their northern neighbors, whose very mirth has a melancholy tinge, and in whom even drunkenness is a protest against sorrow rather than the natural extravagance of light-heartedness.

The Poitevin peasant is naturally gay, and his light-heartedness is manifested in the great number, as well as in the good humor and cheerfulness, of his folk-songs. Of course the common sorrows of mankind weigh upon him; he feels the stings of poverty and the pains and sordidness of labor; the conscription tears him from his home and his beloved; and he experiences the tragedies of love and death. These things stir his mind and find a place in his folk-songs, but the prevailing spirit which governs his expression in music and song is not of melancholy brooding and sorrow, like that of his Celtic neighbors, but gayety and joyousness. He finds the smiling world a pleasant place to live in; his love is the natural and happy ebullition of his warm temperament; and his experiences of life are cheerful.

The gayety of the Poitevin temperament finds its expression in the immense number of "rounds" as they are called in English, which give the vocal measure and accompaniment to the vigorous and joyous dances. The youths and the maidens, when they meet at the rustic gatherings, or even in the intervals of labor in the fields, join hands by a natural instinct, and improvise a dance to the rhythm of their own voices, and the "rounds" which they sing, although often mere nonsense, or at least without a consecutive meaning, have a note of gayety and an ebullition of joyousness, which is inimitable, as thus:--

Vous, qui menez la ronde,

Menez la rondement.

Son cotillon en branle, en branle,

Son cotillon en branle au vent.

Foule, foule, foulons l'herbe,

L'herbe foule reviendra.

Brnnette, allons, gai, gai, gai,

Brunette, allons, gai, gaiment.

--words which interpret the air and accent the steps with an absolute perfection, which a translation cannot render, although it may give an idea of the vivacity and _entrain_.

You, who lead the round,

Lead it roundily.

Her petticoat in motion, in motion,

Her petticoat in motion to the wind.

Tread, tread, come tread the grass,

The trodden grass will spring again

Brunette, come, gay, gay, gay,

Brunette, come, gay, gaily.

All these, like the ancient choruses with which the Greek maidens accompanied their dances of "woven paces and waving hands," with or without the note of a primitive reed to accent the melody, are reproduced in the grosser spirit of the laboring peasant, but equally instinctive with life and gayety, and the natural expression of youthful existence in the open air and under balmy skies.

One of the most characteristic features of the Poitevin peasant is his cunning, his fondness for rustic ruses, and the sharp repartee or trick, which puts to shame the person of a station above his own. The heroines of many of his favorite ballads and songs are endowed with this quality, and he chuckles with a hearty zest at the simple wit with which the shrewd shepherdess puts down the amorous gallant learned in the schools, or escapes the dangerous importunity of a gentleman on the highway or a seignorial hunter in the fields. The folksongs of Poitou are full of such examples, and M. Bugeaud, and M. Leon Pineau, who has followed him in gleaning in the same field (Le Folk-Lore du Poitou), have given a number of specimens. The following shows what simple repartee appeals to the rustic sense of humor:--

NANON.

What is there, Nanon,

In these valleys green?

There is a fool, kind sir,

When you are therein.

Pray tell me, Nanon,

Where does this road go?

When you have found out,

Then you will know.

Come, my dear Nanon,

Under the green shade.

Would you have me think

Of heat you 're afraid?

Is he then happy,

The shepherd you know?

If he is unhappy,

He does n't seem so.

You love him, Nanon,

As I adore you?

Yes, indeed, kind sir,

And much better too.

Pray tell me, Nanon,

Who made you so smart?

You, too, have studied,

And learned things by heart.

In my father's house,

I have studied deep.--

I got my learning

In watching my sheep.

One of the favorite ruses is that by which the shepherd maid induces the gallant to let her go, on some frivolous excuse and a promise to return, and then mocks him for his credulity. A similar jest, with the proverb that when you hold a quail in hand you should pluck it, is very common in French folk-song, as, indeed, in that of all nations. This is one of the Poitevin versions:--

THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE GENTLEMAN.

It was a gentleman returning from the army,

Upon the road he met a shepherd maid;

He dismounted quickly, and went to sit beside her.

Cunning was the maid, and wept as if afraid.

"Have mercy, gentleman, you 'll spoil my fine, white cap,

I 'll go and put it off, and come back quite soon."

The gallant gentleman found the time quite tedious,

The maiden did not come; he whistled a blank tune.

"John, my little John, go and tell the maiden

To come back at once, for she must be asleep."

"Good fortune it is to me that I have got away,

By the grace of God I have no shame to weep."

"Little John returned to where his master waited,

Whistling a blank tune beneath the willow tree,

"Alas, my master, the maid is very cunning;

She is safe at home, and sends you mockery."

The gallant ceased his tune, and swore in bitter anger,

"If again that maid I meet by any hap,

Either in the highroad, or on the flowery meadow,

I will have no mercy on her fine, white cap."

Then the love songs of Poitou have a light and humorous turn, a jest at the fickleness of the runaway lover, and the easy consolation of the young maiden, whose desire is more to have a lover than that he should be any particular person. La Belle Rosalie illustrates this gay mockery of youthful love.

THE FAIR ROSALIE.

The fair Rosalie

Has lost her lover bold,

Is n't she unhappy,

Only fifteen years old!

He promised to return,--

The deep woods were to blame,--

But she has waited vainly;

The traitor never came.

"Nightingale that sings,

Nightingale that flies,

Tell me, tell me truly,

Where my lover lies."

"Your lover, maiden fair,

Has gone across the Rhine.

Captains three are with him,

And he is brave and fine.

"Exchange your woman's dress

For a soldier's coat of blue:

In thirty days you 'll find him,

If you his route pursue."

When she arrived at Bruges,

She found her lover there,

Training with the soldiers,

With banners floating fair.

"If I had known, my dear,

You would have followed me,

You would not have found me,

For I'd have crossed the sea."

"Am I not unhappy,

To march so far to find

The traitor, whom I love,

And who is so unkind?

"Nightingale that sings,

And who hast flown so far,

Tell me, tell me truly,

Where other lovers are."

But all the other lads

Have sought for other brides,

And taken for their spouses

The sabres at their sides.

The Veille des Noces gayly mocks the impatience of the young maiden for the dawn of her wedding day, which will not allow her to rest quiet in bed, or endure without reply the rebuke of her more contented mother:--

THE NIGHT BEFORE MY WEDDING.

The night before my wedding,

Guess what happened me.

I rose up to the window,

If daybreak I could see--

The dawn of day,

The lovely dawn of day,

Of light and love so gay.

I rose up to my window,

If daybreak I could see,

The lovely moon still shining

Was all that greeted me.

The lovely moon still shining,

Was all the sign of light.

I thought it must be four o'clock,

But 't was not yet midnight.

I thought it must be four o'clock,

But midnight had not sped.

My mother, who was listening,

Heard the cross words I said.

My mother, who was listening,

Heard the sad sighs I drew.

"Be silent, little fool," she said,

"Or God will punish you!

"Be silent, little fool," she said,

Or God will bring you loss."

"O, mother dear, do you not know

What't is that makes me cross?

"O, mother dear, do you not know,

What't is that gives me pain,

You lie at ease, but I do not;

I must get up again."

There is also a flavor of mockery in the naïve dialogue between the shepherd, Joseph, and his mistress, whom he has come to waken in the morning, and to invite to spend the day with him on the mountain. The shepherdess wants to be assured of something more substantial than mere affection before she yields to the temptation.

JOSEPH.

Joseph, your faithful shepherd,

Has come to waken you,

Arise, my lovely maiden,

My lovely maiden, rise--

The sun shines bright and new.

Alas, my faithful shepherd,

Whither shall we go?

Above, upon the mountains

Where shining streamlets flow,

Where we will gather violets,

And rosemary also.

Alas, my faithful shepherd,

What shall be our food?

A pie of tender larks,

And cakes so sweet and good,

And see, beneath my mantle

A flask of grapes' rich blood.

Alas, my faithful shepherd,

In what place shall we sleep?

Above, in my thatched cottage,

Within the wood so deep.

I have a place of shelter

Wherein no cold can creep.

Alas, my faithful shepherd,

What if my father knew?

Tell him, my beloved,

That your shepherd true

Came upon the mountain

To keep the wolf from you.

In Le Berger qui me fait le Cour, the shepherdess displays more grace and sentiment in refusing to point out the identity of her lover, while avowing her charming and spontaneous affection.

THE SHEPHERD WHO MAKES LOVE TO ME.

The shepherd who makes love to me,

The shepherd who makes love to me,

Is the bravest you can see.

Ask me not to tell you more.

I lead my sheep upon the plain,

I lead my sheep upon the plain,

And my cows to browse again.

Ask me not to tell you more.

My lambkins feed along the glade,

My lambkins feed along the glade,

And I am seated in the shade.

Ask me not to tell you more.

My shepherd comes to see me there,

My shepherd comes to see me there,

And tells me I am sweet and fair.

Ask me not to tell you more.

In listening to his love words deep,

In listening to his love words deep,

My eyelids close; I'm charmed to sleep.

Ask me not to tell you more.

I dream my shepherd is a dove,

I dream my shepherd is a dove,

And my fond heart his cage of love,

Ask me not to tell you more.

The maiden surprised by her lover as she lies asleep beneath the shade is a favorite subject in all folk-poetry, but it is seldom that it has been treated with a greater grace and charm than in La Belle Endormie. The sentiment has all the simplicity and purity of spontaneous love, and the language the sweet naïveté of folk-song, however much of its charm may have vanished in the translation.

THE FAIR ONE ASLEEP.

In walking in the garden,

To shun the burning light,

I saw beneath the leafage

A maid of beauty bright.

With noiseless feet I crept

To where the damsel slept.

With noiseless feet I tip-toed

To give her no alarm,

Her head had for a pillow

Her round and rosy arm,

As softly as the air

I kissed her dreaming there.

And while she lay in slumber,

I sought a garden bed,

And on her snowy bosom

I placed a rosebud red.

The flower's breath of balm

Dispelled her slumber's charm.

When slumber's charm had vanished,

She woke with laughing eyes;

Oh, magic love, how charming

To catch hearts by surprise!

To wake them like the dawn,

When spring-time is new-born.

In the bosquet of Pouzange

I meet my faithful loves.

They murmur in the leafage,

Sweet tender-throated doves.

They sing the whole day long,

And love is all their song.

But there is a sadder note which makes itself heard in these songs of love in Poitou, as elsewhere,--the lamentation of the maiden who has listened too fondly to the words of her shepherd lover, and experienced his faithlessness. She must hide at home with her shame, and sadly find that only her dog is faithful.

IT WAS THE SPRING SIX MONTHS AGO.

It was the spring six months ago,

And in the fresh, green fields below,

My bleating flock around me fed,

While watching them I spun my thread,

And naught of sin or shame did know.

But Colin came one evening fair,

With tender words beguiled me there;

"Dear shepherdess, come take my arm,

Lest lonely roads should bring you harm,

And ghosts or wolves in darkness scare."

In his my trusting hand I place,

While love invades me with its grace;

I could not check his passion's strength,

And wished the road of greater length,

While listening with a blushing face.

But Colin has a faithless mind,

Inconstant as the changing wind.

While I shamefaced must hide at home,

Vainly asking when my love will come,

But my dog alone is true and kind.

The conscription, which compels the peasant, who has drawn the fatal number, to leave his native fields and his mistress, is an important and disturbing influence in the rural life of France, and finds a frequent place in its folk-song. Sometimes it is taken gayly, and the lover departs in high spirits, singing along the road to the garrison with his companions, and promising fidelity to his mistress to whom he hopes soon to return. It is thus in the gay song Voici l'Hiver Passé.

THE WINTER IT IS PAST.

The winter it is past,

The freezing frost and snow,

The springtime it has come,

And to the fields we go.

Above, upon the hilltop,

The flowers bright and blue,

The little singing birds

Their joyful songs renew.

They say in tender tones,

In language sweet and clear,

That every pretty maiden

Should have a lover dear.

But mine has gone away,

A soldier's trade to learn

In service at Bordeaux,

But he will soon return.

We go, my comrades brave,

Let's bid our girls good-by,

Give them a parting kiss,

And tell them not to cry.

With knapsack on the back,

We make a brave convoy.

We march along the road

With gallant songs of joy.

At Bordeaux, when you come,

And other girls you see,

You 'll make another choice,

And think no more of me.

When I am at Bordeaux,

Fond letters I will write,

And give them to the clouds,

That pass with bosoms white.

There will be within them,

In letters deep and clear,

That I will always be

Your lover true and dear.

But the circumstances are not always so cheerful nor the songs so gay. There is a tragedy, when, moved by an irresistible longing, the unfortunate conscript has deserted the ranks, been captured by his comrades, and condemned to suffer the penalty of his weakness in a shameful death. The old songs have many subjects of that kind, whose memory lingers, although the penalty for desertion is now less severe. One of them is Le Deserteur, whose deeply plaintive air, and the melopoeism of its verse, as well as its simple tragedy, have kept it alive.

THE DESERTER.

"For eight long years within the troop I served,

Without a furlough to relieve my pain.

The longing took me to desert the ranks,

To my fair land to turn my steps again.

" I had a luckless meeting on my way,

Three grenadiers before me made a halt.

With handcuffs hard and cold they bound my hands,

And led me to Bordeaux to a prison vault.

"Ah, is it then for love of a brown maid,

That in a cell I lie in dismal mood;

My only couch the hard planks of the floor,

Water and black bread my only drink and food."

But when the maiden heard these words of grief,

Both night and day she walked her love to see.

" Courage, my dear love," through the grate she said,

"I will find out a way to rescue thee.

"I will run out, and seek your captain kind,

Your captain kind, and your brave colonel too.

I will beseech them, and implore a pardon,

I will give them gold to free my lover true!"

"I am deeply grieved, my little shepherdess,

That for this grenadier you should moan and cry.

Before the court of war he must soon appear,

And at the drum will be condemned to die!"

When the maiden heard the cruel words he said,

Her cheeks grew white that were so rosy red.

The captain threw his arm around her waist,

And kindly bade her lift her drooping head.

"Fair shepherdess, take me for your lover,

I will love you well, and free your heart from pain."

Tears within her eyes, and kerchief to her face,

"No, no," she said, "I cannot love again."

But the soldier or the sailor after long years of service gets leave to return to his home on a furlough or a discharge. Sometimes he is welcomed by his aged parents or his faithful wife, who recognize him with joyful surprise, in spite of his rags and wounds; and sometimes he finds that his long absence has wrought fatal changes, that his parents are dead, or his wife, deceived by false news of his death, has married again. Incidents of this latter kind are familiar in folk-song, but there is none where the story is more simply and dramatically told, or where the conduct of the unfortunate husband shows such pathetic refinement of feeling, than in La Femme du Marin, which is one of the best-known and popular of the old songs of Poitou. The air is charmingly soft and melancholy, and the words display a skill in melody which the most accomplished poet might envy. A more felicitous verse can hardly be found in the whole annals of folk-song than this:--

Quand le marin revient de guerre,

Tout doux.

Quand le marin revient de guerre,

Tout doux.

Tout mal chaussé, tout mal vetu,

Pauvre marin du reviens tu?

Tout doux.

It is hardly necessary to apologize for the imperfection of an attempt to render such a flower of poetry into another language.

THE WIFE OF THE MARINE. 1

When the marine came from the war,

Good and kind.

When the marine came from the war,

Good and kind.

With ragged coat and battered shoe.

1 I have translated marin as ''marine" instead of sailor, as
in the last verse it is said that he goes back to his
"regiment."

Poor marine, from whence come you?

Good and kind.

Madame, I come from the war,

Good and kind.

Madame, I come from the war,

Good and kind.

Bring me now a brimming glass,

That I may drink it as I pass,

Good and kind.

The brave marine begins to drink,

Good and kind.

The brave marine begins to drink,

Good and kind.

Drinks and sings a ballad gay,

While madame wipes the tears away,

Good and kind.

What troubles you, my fair hostess?

Good and kind.

What troubles you, my fair hostess?

Good and kind.

Do you regret the kindly glass,

That you give me as I pass?

Good and kind.

I don't regret my good white wine,

Good and kind.

I don't regret my good white wine,

Good and kind.

A husband's loss bedims my eyes,

For in your looks his image lies,

Good and kind.

Ah, tell me now, my fair hostess,

Good and kind.

Ah, tell me now, my fair hostess,

Good and kind.

Children three he left behind,

But now three more with you I find,

Good and kind.

I had a letter from the war,

Good and kind.

I had a letter from the war,

Good and kind.

Which said my brave marine was dead,

I thought it true; again I wed,

Good and kind.

The brave marine drank out his glass,

Good and kind.

The brave marine drank out his glass,

Good and kind.

Without a word, while soft tears flowed,

To his corps went back his road,

Good and kind.

SOME ANCIENT PORTUGUESE BALLADS.

|The larger and more important literature of Spain has naturally drawn a wider attention than that of its smaller neighbor in the Iberian peninsula. The great achievements of Spanish genius in the era of its intellectual efflorescence have compelled the intellectual world to study its language and familiarize itself with its literature. And not only have the great works of Cervantes and Calderon and Lope de Yega been studied and criticised, and reproduced in all the cultivated languages of Europe, but the treasures of popular Spanish poetry, with their rich elements of chivalry and romantic passion, have been carefully studied and exemplified by foreign scholars, and been the inspiration of foreign poets and translators. Hardly any country in Europe has a more valuable collection of popular poetry in the times of its military and intellectual greatness, or which more thoroughly illustrates its history or the characteristics of its national temperament. The long chronicles of the Cid, and the ballad narratives of the exploits of the heroes of the great struggles for the expulsion of the Moors, form in themselves a rich body of national poetry, but they are supplemented by an immense number of episodical ballads relating to events in national history, and lyrical poems and songs expressing the strong feeling and intellectual energy of the people. Many scholars and poets of eminence in European countries have devoted themselves to the reproduction of these Spanish national poems in their own languages, and in England during the early part of the present century there was a strong bent of scholarship in that direction, induced to a considerable extent, probably, by the national interest in the Peninsular war. Southey, Scott, and John Hookham Frere gave admirable translations of Spanish national poems, and the spirited versions of ancient Spanish ballads by Lockhart have been justly considered a permanent addition to English poetry.

But no such degree of attention has been paid to Portuguese literature, although it possesses the same national characteristics as the Spanish, and is not inferior, except in volume, as regards the product of popular poetry and folk-song. This was natural enough. Except the great poem of Camoens, Portuguese literature possesses no masterpiece to compel the attention of the civilized world, and the product of its national genius is not of the bulk and importance of that of Spain. Its national characteristics were similar, so that independent study was not incited by original features, while the difference in language was sufficient to be a barrier to all except special scholars. The country was in a measure overwhelmed and overshadowed by Spain, although possessing independent and interesting features of its own, and has been regarded as a province rather than as an original country. Very little attention has been paid in foreign countries to Portuguese popular literature, although some French and German scholars have included it in their studies, and there is no volume in English, so far as I am aware, which deals with it. At the same time it is well worth attention in its richness and value in all the qualities which make a high order of popular poetry, and in those elements of chivalric feeling, dramatic incident, and intensity of passion which characterize Spanish poetry of the same period. Fortunately Portugal itself has shared in that interest, which has spread through all the civilized countries of Europe in ancient popular literature and folk-song, and its national scholars have devoted a painstaking care and interest to collecting and elucidating its ancient ballads. The pioneer in this work was Almeida Garrett, himself a distinguished poet, who, being compelled to take refuge in England by the political disturbances of 1820, came under the influence of Sir Walter Scott as regards the work which he had done for the national literature of Scotland. Like Scott he at first wrote imitations of the old ballads with their literary style and phrases. These, like all other imitations of ancient ballads, although full of strength and poetical power, had not the genuine naturalness of antiquity and the inimitable flavor of primitive art. Later, on his return to Portugal, Almeida Garrett set himself to work to collect the ancient Portuguese ballads, as Scott had done those of the Scottish border, and was almost equally successful. The backwardness of the Portuguese peasantry in education, and their comparative seclusion from the influences of modern civilization in their mountains and valleys, contributed very much to the preservation of their ancient ballads, and even to-day they are a part of the oral literature of the country. There were of course many ancient ballads, in written and printed forms, which were preserved in libraries and in the papers of old families, but the great bulk of Almeida Garrett's collection was derived from oral tradition. He followed the example of Scott in uniting the best forms of varying versions into a complete and harmonious whole, and it is hardly doubtful that he also supplied an occasional wanting or imperfect line. But his general faithfulness and respect for the originals have been abundantly proved by the work of later collectors. The popular poetry of Portugal owes no less to Almeida Garrett than that of Scotland does to Scott, and he inculcated a pride in national history and national literature by his genius, as well as rescued the remains of ancient popular poetry by his painstaking care. Since his time he has been followed by other Portuguese scholars, who have worked under the restrictions of more absolute faithfulness and historic research imposed by the modern study of folk-lore. Notably Signor Braga has published two very valuable volumes, Komanceiro Geral, relating to the popular poetry of Portugal, and the Cantos Populares do Archipelago Açoriario, the songs of the Azore islands, whose seclusion from the world has been very favorable to the preservation of the ancient popular poetry and folk-lore. There are others who have made national collections, and the folk-songs of the various provinces, so that now the popular poetry of Portugal has been as carefully gathered and preserved as that of any other nation of Europe.

The popular poetry of Portugal had its period of efflorescence contemporaneous with that of Spain, and covered the period of its national energy and enterprise. The oldest specimens now extant are not considered to date beyond the fifteenth century, although, of course, they may have derived their origin from still more ancient ballads. The greater part is included within the two centuries following, when the national mind still preserved the spring and energy which had accomplished such great achievements in navigation and enterprise, and before its spirit had been crushed into the narrow bounds of a restricted and decaying province. Contrary, however, to the condition of the national poetry in Spain, the allusions to the actual events of recorded history are somewhat rare, and, although the actions of kings and national heroes make some figure, for the most part they relate to popular traditions, which have but a vague connection with national history. In style and manner, however, they bear a close resemblance to the Spanish popular poems, and in many instances they appear but as slightly differing variants, although it is doubtful which may have been the original, the Spanish or the Portuguese. The ballad of Dom Yanno, which is a specimen of the longer popular romances, is similar, except in its termination, to the Castilian romance known under the title of the Count Alarcos, and which has been translated by Lockhart under the title of Count Alarcos and the Infanta Solisa. In the Spanish romance the count actually fulfills the commands of the king by murdering his spouse, but before her death she cites the king and the infanta to appear within thirty days before the judgment seat of God, and it is accomplished by their deaths in that time. There are numerous variants to the ballad in Spanish popular literature, and it has been made the subject of dramas by Lope de Vega and others. Its connection with actual history is unknown.

DOM YANNO.

The princess wept and wept again; the reason for her tears

And that her life had little joy within her royal house,

Was that her father had forgot for slowly passing years

To dower her in marriage with some rich and noble spouse.

Her mourning was so deep one night, the king woke in his

bed.

"What, troubles you, my daughter dear, why do you weep

and mourn?"

"Of your three daughters, royal sire, alone I am not wed.

Therefore my days are dark and dull; therefore I am for

lorn."

"What remedy is there for that? I'm not the one to blame;

Ambassadors from Aquitaine and lords from Normandy,

When with noble marriage proffers in suppliance they came,

You would not hearken to at all, nor treat with courtesy."

"Of all the nobles of my court not one is there I see,

Except Count Yanno, who in wealth and lineage of pride

Can for a single instant seem a worthy spouse for thee,

And he has taken to his house a fair and noble bride.''

"O noble father of my soul, you 've named the very one.

If he already has a wife, and even children too,

He owes another pledge to me, for my weak heart he won.

He gave to me his solemn word, and I believed it true."

The king sent summons to the count to come where he awaits.

He had not thought what he should do, or e'en what he

should say.

"'T is but a single moment since I left the palace gates,

And now the king demands me back; what does it mean, I

pray?"

Count Yanno enters in the hall; the king straight to him goes.

"My lord, I humbly kiss your hands; what is your royal

will?"

"You may kiss them for the honor the king on thee bestows,

In wedlock take my daughter's hand, and your sworn troth

fulfill."

Count Yanno, when he heard these words, was struck with

mortal dread.

"My royal master, I 've a wife with whom I live in bliss."

"Go kill your wife without delay, and then my daughter wed."

"What! kill my wife, so innocent! What black command is

this!"

"Be silent, Count, your insolence I will not suffer now.

One cannot trick a royal maid like any simple slave."

"My lord, before your righteous rage in penitence I bow,

That I may pay the debt alone is all I humbly crave."

"That I should kill an innocent, who's never done a wrong,

Such deadly treason would o'erwhelm my soul with shame

and sin.

The life of earth in punishment to justice would belong,

And in the life beyond the grave no pardon could I win."

"The Countess is a burden here, and therefore must she die;

In that gilt basin bring her head, all dripping with its gore."

Count Yanno left the cruel king, his soul in agony,

And followed the dark page, whose arms the fatal basin bore.

The page was clad in mourning garb, the Count in sad array,

As if in pain of parting breath his heart with anguish

swelled,

The Countess ran to meet him, as she saw him far away;

Her husband and her little child in one embrace she held.

"Well come--well come, Count, for my joy;" but not a

word he said,

He mounted slowly up the steps, and locked and barred the

door;

Then bade the wondering servants the supper table spread:

The household marveled at a mien they 'd never seen before,

They did not touch the food or wine, but sat in sad unrest.

The tears welled from Count Yanno's eyes; he bent to kiss

the child,

That to his mother's warm, soft breast his rosy lips had prest:

The infant turned to meet the kiss, and like an angel smiled.

To see that mingled smile and kiss, her heart in sobs broke

out,

The echoes of her bursting grief filled all the lofty room:

"What troubles you, my best beloved; resolve this dreadful
doubt,

What is the order of the king that fills you so with gloom?"

The Count choked down his sudden sobs, he could no answer

make.

She clasped his neck and on his mouth she pressed a frantic

kiss.

"Take from my heart this agony I suffer for your sake,

Let me partake your sorrow, dear, and you shall share my

bliss."

The woeful pair from table rose, and sought in bed to rest,

But slumber came not to their eyes, to give their pains

relief.

"By the good God in heaven above, and Virgin Mary blest,

My very life I'd sooner give than see you in such grief."

"May death revenge such black command; perish his tyr

anny!

My Count, I do not understand what't is he bids thee do;

Upon my life and soul, my love, reveal it now to me,

This dreadful shadow of ill fate that comes between us

two."

"The fate of an ill-fated one, and no help can there be,

The king commands that I kill thee, and the Infanta wed."

Scarce had these dreadful words been spoke in stifled agony

When the unhappy Countess fell, as if her life had fled.

God did not give her death's relief, tho' better she had

died

For anguish deeper far than death recalled life to her heart,

"Wait, wait, Count Yanno, kill me not, but let me go and hide

In my dear father's distant house, where I can dwell apart.

"There I will live a maid again, and keep my true troth

plight;

There I will rear this infant, and guard him from all sin;

Though sorrow lies between us two, he 'll be my dear delight,

And I'll be faithful to my love as I have always been."

"How can that be, my best beloved, it is the king's black will

Within that gilded basin there to see your severed head."

"Wait, wait, Count Yanno, kill me not, I have a refuge still;

The cloistered nuns will guard me, when to their cells I've

fled.

"My bread be measured by the ounce, my drink quench not

my thirst,

Then speedily my death will come, nor will the princess

know."

"How can that be, my best beloved, since in that basin curst

I must thy severed head before the king and princess show."

"Enclose me in a dungeon dark, where neither sun nor moon

Shall light the hours I count by sighs until my life has fled."

"How can that be, my best beloved? the hour will come full

soon

When in that gilded basin there the king must see your

head."

The king knocked harshly at the door as these last words

were said:

"If the Countess still is living, quick, quick, make haste to

slay."

"The Countess says her orisons, but soon she will be dead,

And in a single moment's space her soul will pass away."

"Oh, let me say a final prayer to bid the world good-night."

"Make haste to say it, my beloved, for daybreak I can see."

"Oh, God and Virgin Mary blest, I cannot pray aright;

It is not death afflicts me so, but shameful treachery.

"I pity you more than myself, for your base cowardice;

With your own hand you take my life, though reason there

is none

Except the wicked princess' hand will pay the shameful price.

May God forgive you at the hour you stand before his

throne!

"Oh, let me say my last farewell to all I've loved so dear,

The flower of Alexandria, the roses red and white,

The little tender violets, the fountain waters clear,

I've tended you with love and care; the princess' hand will

blight.

"Give me my child, fruit of my womb, in my weak arms to

hold,

That he may feed upon the breast that swells with its last

breath.

It is my blood that he will drink, that runs so faint and cold.

Drink, little infant, drink the milk that's tinged with bitter

death.

To-day you have a mother dear, who loves you tenderly,

To-morrow a step-mother harsh, of loftiest degree."

The great church bell tolls heavily. Ah, Jesus, who is dead?

The infant's lips by miracle this wondrous answer made:

"The princess, choked with wickedness; her soul in sin has

fled;

To part such dear and faithful loves God's holy might for

bade!"

The ballad of The Ship Catharine is one of the best known and most popular among the folk-songs of Portugal. Various attempts have been made by Almeida Garrett, Braga, and others to attach it to some historical event, but without satisfactory success, and, indeed, its character is such that it is apparent that it belongs rather to the order of indefinite romance. The incidents in regard to the drawing of the lots to see who shall be eaten, and the ascent of the sailor to look for land, are to be found in the folk-songs of various maritime nations. One of them has been found in Brittany and has been preserved by M. Luzel in the Gwerzion Breiz-Izel. It relates that a vessel, which had been voyaging for twenty-seven years upon the high seas, naturally fell short of provisions, and the crew were compelled to think of eating each other:

"And when they had drawn for the short straw, it was the master of the vessel to whom it fell--Great God, is it possible that my sailors will eat me?"